


Homecoming

by MillyVeil



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Grieving, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, s05e03 Laying Pipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: It’s just past noon when the guys roll into the T-M lot, but there’s nothing celebratory about this homecoming. Jax goes straight to Tara and the boys, leaving Chibs and Tig to fend off everyone else’s subdued greetings. Juice hangs back, out of the way, but he can tell they’re all exhausted. Tig accepts the hugs and the pats on the back. He hedges away when the contact lingers too long. Chibs's eyes are blank with fatigue, but they keep moving, moving, moving, keep scanning the faces, the yard, its entrances and exits like he can’t stop himself.
Relationships: Juice Ortiz/Chibs Telford
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Ranni and I were talking about finding stuff in old folders that we'd forgotten we had ever written, and I went in search for something I vaguely remembered writing long ago but never posted. I came across this. It wasn't what I was looking for, but I read it and realized that hey, I kind of liked it. So here, I give you another old Sons of Anarchy story from 2012 originally posted on Livejournal under my then-pen name Spacebabe.

** Homecoming**

The APB goes wide during the night, and Juice doesn’t find out until next morning. By then Dawn is history, Tig has turned into a silent ghost, and the guys are holed up at that hooker stable to ride it out.  
  
Only, you don’t ride out a warrant for first degree murder.  
  
Especially not one that’s got a couple of false, but highly motivated witnesses attached to it. So, before long, Juice finds himself standing outside the T-M with everyone else, watching Chibs flip the cops off, watching him being cuffed and taken away with Jax and Tig. And Opie… Man, Opie walks right up to Roosevelt and clocks him one, gets himself a free pass to jail right alongside the guys.  
  
The rest of them huddle together at the bar that night, staying close to Bobby since he’s likely to be the first one to know _anything_. Without protection inside and with Pope pretty much declaring open season on the Sons, they know that anything can happen.  
  
The phone stays silent and Juice spends most of the night trying to convince himself that no news is a good thing.  
  
What little sleep he gets that night is cobweb thin, transparent like gauze, and he tosses and turns and worries. By the time he finally falls alseep for real, dawn is already breaking across the horizon.

He feels like week-old road kill when he stumbles out of bed an hour and a half later to go pick up Clay. They head out to the meet with Torres, and Juice feels the restless anxiety creep up under his skin as Bobby and Clay approaches the guy. Leaning back against the van, he does his best to cover it up, to play it cool. It’s over in a few minutes. No explosions. No shoot-outs. No fist fights. But Bobby looks pissed off when they’re done. Clay just looks tired, worn, and something in Juice’s gut tightens sickly. It’s like looking at your dad and suddenly realizing he’s an old man. 

As Juice goes to start up the van, Clay asks, casual as anything, where Gemma’s been hanging out. For a blessed while, Juice’s brain isn’t going round and round in corrosive little circles, thinking about Chibs and the rest of the guys being cut open in jail. His thoughts are suddenly stuck on _oh, shit_ and visions of blood and body parts all over Diosa’s stylish pastel decor.   
  
If Clay hadn’t still been miles and miles from his old physical form, Juice is sure that would have happened. There are a few tense moments of Clay and Padilla staring each other down, and Juice hovers behind them, feeling fluttery and nervous, because there’s no way Clay isn’t going to get his ass kicked, and Juice really doesn’t want to have to get into it with Padilla, not after everything the guy has done for Jax and the guys. Not to mention the fact that Gemma will have Juice’s balls with a dull spoon if he damages her new squeeze.  
  
But then, just as bloodshed seems inevitable, Clay grins and backs down. He ambles past Padilla and sweeps his gaze over the place. One of the girls in the back catches his attention, and he nods towards her and asks Padilla if she’s available. She is. Clay disappears towards the ‘treatment rooms’ with her and Juice swears he feels the gunpowder scent of narrowly avoided disaster in the air. Then Carla takes him by the hand and tows _him_ to the back. Juice knows he should take offense to the ‘playing with white trash’ comment she drops over her shoulder in Padilla’s direction as they pass, but honestly, the barbs seem more directed towards Padilla than Juice, and most of his brain has preemptively checked out at this point, anyway, so he doesn’t really care.  
  
Carla’s amazing, all soft curves and rock-hard action, and Juice feels like a fucking king when she’s done with him. But then Gemma shows up and yeah, there’s bloodshed, anyway. Juice feels sorry for that girl. Not her fault. At least there’s no skateboard around for Gemma to get her hands on this time. Clay looks smug as anything, and Juice’s post-sex mellowness is gone like it was never there.

* * *

Back at the club house, the worry comes trickling back. Every time Bobby’s phone rings, the air grows tense and everyone pretend not to listen in on the call. Mostly, it’s people checking in to see if there’s been any news. Then, just after eight in the evening when Juice is elbow-deep in a gutted old desktop computer, wires and ancient hardware all around, another call comes in. Bobby glances down at the display of his phone and Juice’s stomach drops. The look on Bobby’s face tells it all.

This is it. The real thing. 

Juice puts the screwdriver down. Around him, the club house has gone strangely quiet. A quick look around tells him he’s apparently not the only one who picked up on Bobby’s body-language.  
  
Bobby flips the phone open. He gets to his feet and presses it close to his ear. “Talk to me.”

The voice on the other side is a muted, insect-like drone and Juice picks up the screwdriver, stares at the PCI slots, puts it back down again. He can’t remember what he was doing. He sits there, head down, and listens to Bobby’s string of okays, of yeahs and uh-huhs. Then, suddenly… nothing.

Juice looks up. Everyone in the room is staring at Bobby, and Bobby… Bobby’s staring at something that’s miles beyond the wall in front of him, unblinking, phone still pressed against his ear. He looks frozen, like he’s made out of stone and Juice suddenly feels sick, like his insides are being coiled up, tighter and tighter, and he runs the odds in his head again, just like he did when he heard the guys were giving themselves up. Four Sons against Pope, against karma, against their bad luck and all the enemies they made last time they were inside.

Bobby blinks back into life. He swallows, brings the phone from his ear and closes it with deliberately precise motions.

“The guys are getting out in the morning,” he says.

And that’s good news, right? But Juice can’t help feeling like the ground beneath him is starting to crumble, because Bobby’s voice is just... _wrong_.

When Happy asks if they’re okay, Juice has to force himself to stay put, to not get up and simply walk away, because Bobby opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and fuck, fuck, fuck.

Clay’s the one who finally asks the question no one wants the answer to.

Who?

Juice stares at Chibs’s rings, lined up out of reach on the top shelf behind the bar. He stares at them, unblinking, with the surreal feeling that if he doesn’t take his eyes off them, things will be fine, Chibs will be safe, because he’s got to come collect them. He’ll walk into the clubhouse, grab a drink and then start looking for his rings. He’ll swear a blue streak at the wanker who thought to put them in a place that requires a chair to reach them.  
  
Bobby’s still clasping his phone, white-knuckled. Whatever name he says, Juice knows it’s going to slice him open like a rusty knife. He leans his elbows on the bar counter, rests his forehead against his clasped hands and he’s probably racking up another couple of lifetimes in hell, but he doesn’t care, he closes his eyes and prays that Bobby’s going to say Tig. Not Chibs. Not Chibs. Not Chibs.   
  
Bobby doesn’t say Tig.  
  
But he doesn’t say Chibs either, he says Opie, and Juice is so fucked up; Opie is _dead,_ but somehow in the midst of the grief crushing down on him, he's so painfully relieved.

* * *  
  
Juice spends the night on the lumpy couch, doesn’t even bother claiming a bed in the back. It’s not like he’s going to get any sleep, anyway. He figures the booze is closer here, too. In the end, he doesn’t drink. He lies there, stone sober, staring at the dark ceiling, and no matter how he tries to keep his mind away from Ope, every damn thought seems to circle back and end up right there. By the time morning washes the windows with gray light, he’s sick of deflecting thoughts and questions and memories, fed up with swallowing back tears, so he gets up and starts cleaning out the mess behind the bar.  
  
He’s on his knees, surrounded by crap - empty bottles, crumpled up notes, greasy fast food wrappers, a size thirteen black high-heeled shoe, three incomplete decks of card and counting, an old radio with its insides hanging out - when Bobby stumbles in from the back.

Bobby looks like hell, like he’s aged ten years overnight, like all the boozing and partying and leading the wild life finally caught up with him and body-slammed him in the corridor last night.   
  
Squinting at the faint light, Bobby reaches over and grabs the bottle of Advil from the shelf over Juice’s head. He chases down a handful of them with Jack Daniels. “Get any sleep?” he asks and pulls a pair of round shades from his chest pocket and slides them on.  
  
“Some,” Juice lies. “You?”  
  
Bobby rests his forehead against his hands and shakes his head.  
  
Juice frowns. He feels like reheated shit himself, but Bobby’s looking worse. “You okay?”  
  
Bobby waves a wilted hand but doesn’t look up. “Just a headache.”  
  
Juice gets to his feet, reaches for his cut. “Need something stronger?” He gets headaches sometimes, icepick-in-the-eye kind of headaches, and the stuff he carries is way better than Advil.  
  
“A .22 between the eyes sounds good right about now,” Bobby mutters. He looks up between wild strands of curly, gray hair. “What you got?”  
  
“Top-shelf stuff. Only the best for our VP,” Juice says and immediately wants to suck the words back in, because Bobby looks down and Juice knows exactly what he’s thinking.   
  
The VP patch was always supposed to go to Opie.  
  
Not that Bobby isn’t doing a good job, or that Juice begrudges him the position, it’s just that ever since Juice’s had anything to do with SAMCRO, it was always the unspoken expectation that Jax would one day be the pres and Opie would sit on his left side. It was just the way it was going to be. Bobby knows that as well as anyone. He' just got stuck with the ungrateful task of picking up the slack when Opie withdrew further from the club after Piney was killed.  
  
Juice fingers the plastic pill bottle, tries to think of something to say that will make that pinched look on Bobby’s face go away. As usual, he comes up with nothing but stupid, inappropriate jokes, so in the end he just hands Bobby the bottle and goes back to cleaning.

* * *

It’s just past noon when the guys roll into the T-M lot, but there’s nothing celebratory about this homecoming. Jax goes straight to Tara and the boys, leaving Chibs and Tig to fend off everyone else’s subdued greetings. Juice hangs back, out of the way, but he can tell they’re all exhausted. Tig accepts the hugs and the pats on the back. He hedges away when the contact lingers too long.

Chibs's eyes are blank with fatigue, but they keep moving, moving, moving, keep scanning the faces, the yard, its entrances and exits like he can’t stop himself.   
  
* * *  
  
The guys don’t even get ten minutes. Unser delivers the news about Gemma’s little stunt, and Jax and Chibs roll out to Diosa to check on Nero.

Juice helps Bobby with the preparation for the wake, and it’s horrible. Fucking horrible. People arrive, one by one, or in groups, bringing flowers and food and little gifts to see Opie off, and the clubhouse fills up quickly. Juice wanders, talks a few minutes with this person or that, stays far, far away from Lyla, because just looking at her makes him feels useless and small. He keeps drifting back to Bobby to see if he needs help with something, but mostly, Juice just wants to leave and find a nice, deserted corner to cry in.  
  
It’s late when Jax walks in. Without words or gestures he directs them to follow him into the chapel. Putting the lid on Opie’s coffin is the worst thing ever, but it’s done quickly and then they’re moving, walking past the lines of people, past the bowed heads and the raised glasses.

Juice’s never heard silence like that. 

The brake lights of the hearse disappear around the corner, and Juice’s suddenly too tired to stand up. He leaves the others and heads on over to the swing set they built for Abel years ago. He sits there in the darkness and listens as the silence in the club house gives way to conversation, then to laughing, and Juice knows they’re sharing stories and memories. He stays right where he is, smoking until the pack is empty.

Bobby sends Jax home with Tara pretty early, tries to do the same with Chibs, but the guy refuses, and Juice eventually braves the clubhouse to keep an eye on him, because Chibs looks fall down tired and not quite there.  
  
* * *  
  
Hours later, Juice rides alongside Chibs through a sleeping Charming, up the dark side streets to the edge of town where Chibs’s house is. They pull up, park on the small, weed-covered driveway, and Juice kicks the stand down, pulls his helmet off and watches as Chibs walks up the little overgrown path to the front door, moving like he’s sore. He probably is. Juice knows that the bruises on Chibs’s face tell only part of the story.  
  
Chibs fumbles with the keys and it takes more than one try to get the door unlocked, but there’s a distinct lack of cursing. When he finally succeeds, he walks inside and leaves the keys in the door and the door wide open. And there it is. For all that Chibs hasn’t really looked at Juice since he walked through that door at the clubhouse, the invitation is plain enough for even Juice to see.   
  
Juice gets off his bike and checks the mailbox on his way up to the house. It’s packed with junk mail. He leaves it. He grabs the key from the lock, closes the front door behind him, locks and latches it. He hears Chibs move through the dark house, towards the stairs. Juice hangs back. Listens to the creak of the steps. He’s got no idea what to do here, no idea what Chibs wants or needs. The keys jingle as he tosses them into the little bowl next to the door. He goes to check the backdoor, then busies himself for a few minutes with gathering dirty plates and glasses from the living room.  
  
Chibs is sitting on the edge of the bed when Juice finally makes his way upstairs. Not a single light is on. Chibs stares at his own hands, hanging heavily between his knees.  
  
The bed creaks softly when Juice sits down next to Chibs. He picks at the wrinkled sheets as he tries to find something to say that isn’t some version of _are you okay_? Because Opie’s dead and Chibs had to watch him die and there’s not a thing that’s okay about that.  
  
“Are you hungry?” he asks instead.  
  
Chibs’s hair hangs lank and heavy down the sides of his face, hiding him from Juice. He shakes his head no.   
  
“You need anything else?”  
  
Chibs doesn’t move for a moment, then sighs and pushes to his feet with a groan. Juice watches him disappear into the bathroom and feels so fucking useless. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make that horrible thousand-yard stare go away.  
  
Light spills out from the bathroom. The white noise sound of water running is heard after a few seconds. Juice gets up, leans against the door frame and watches Chibs brush his teeth.  
  
Chibs doesn’t lift his gaze from the sink, not once. When he’s done, he rinses his mouth, toes his boots off before ditching his jacket on the bedroom floor and crawls into bed, jeans and socks and wife-beater still on. He curls up on his side, away from Juice.   
  
“I gotta sleep,” he mumbles, like he has to explain himself.  
  
“Want me to leave?” Juice asks. He hesitates, but finally reaches over and pulls the sheets and the blankets up over Chibs.  
  
Chibs reaches behind him, blindly searching until he finds Juice’s wrist. His fingers are cold, clammy, but the grip is steady as he pulls Juice into bed with him. He pulls Juice forward, forward, until Juice finally realizes that Chibs wants him in front, not behind him. Chibs isn’t satisfied until he’s got Juice’s back pressed up all along his front and his arms are wrapped around Juice’s ribcage, holding on tight.  
  
“Hang on,” Juice says. He’s still got his boots on, and that’s just not right. He wriggles onto his back and has to break the ring of Chibs’s arm to reach down to unlace them. It’s the work of a few seconds to get them untied and off. He kicks them over the side of the bed.   
  
He lies down and scoots closer and pulls Chibs arms around him again. He slides his feet between Chibs’s, and it takes a while to get comfy.  
  
He lies there in the darkness and feels the too-fast beating of Chibs’s heart against his back, feels Chibs’s forehead press into his neck. Juice swallows around the tightness in his own throat and selfishly wants the tension that hums beneath Chibs’s skin to go away, because it hurts him.   
  
He wants to shake Chibs, wants to snap him out of the daze he’s in, wants…  
  
Wants to pretend he doesn’t hear the first wet hitch in Chibs’s breathing. Wants to close his eyes and wake up to a new day and things will be okay. Opie’s not gonna be dead, Chibs’s gonna be his usual self, growling about the fact that Juice turns into a fucking octopus in his sleep, and Jax is gonna pull some solution out of his ass that’s gonna fix this mess. And then they’ll live happily ever after.  
  
But life isn’t a fairy tale and there are no magic wands, no happy endings. All Juice can do is keep stroking Chibs’s hand as the guy breaks, and Juice thinks about the little black cat he found by the tracks one summer. He couldn’t have been more than five, and he remembers petting its matted fur, straightening its legs out and trying to make it feel better, because it looked like it needed it and when Juice felt sick, people being kind to him always made him feel better. But then his older sister had showed up and dragged him away and screeched that it was dead.   
  
He intertwines his fingers with Chibs’s, presses both of their hands close to his chest, and Chibs makes a sound so miserable that it will give Juice nightmares, he knows it. But nightmares seems preferable to reality right now, because Opie is still lying cold and broken at the funeral home, and SAMCRO is crumbling under Pope’s offensive, under the weight of the cartel and the Irish and a RICO case only Juice knows about.   
  
And he doesn’t know how to make any of it better.  
  
  
  


~ The End ~


End file.
